


Sarah Smiles part 2

by sixoutoften



Category: Panic! at the Disco
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-17
Updated: 2013-02-17
Packaged: 2017-11-29 15:01:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/688283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sixoutoften/pseuds/sixoutoften
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>
  <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/688271">Part one</a>
</p>
    </blockquote>





	Sarah Smiles part 2

**Author's Note:**

> [Part one](http://archiveofourown.org/works/688271)

Ryan's tried so hard to think of ways to make this situation better. He's been racking his brain since the moment he left Brendon's house (Brendon shouting after him), since the moment his muddled mind cleared enough for him to know, since the moment his wide-blown eyes focused enough for him to see that what he'd done was wrong.

He's desperate for solutions he knows he won't find.

He knows Brendon too well to expect to be easily forgiven, if at all.

He just needs Brendon to know, to understand that it wasn't him that night, wasn't  _Ryan_ , at least not really. Ryan would  _never_  do something so horrible to someone as sweet as Brendon. Hurting someone so perfect is beyond Ryan's thoughts.

Especially when he still loves the younger man more than life itself.

-

Brendon's been destroying himself.

Ever since Ryan made him hurt, made him bleed, made him cry, ever since Sarah walked out on him, left him for good, he's had nothing to live for.

He's been needing distractions, things to take his attention away from his own thoughts, from the physical and emotional aching. He's been treating himself like nothing, not caring about the consequence; even if it kills him, he wouldn't mind very much. 

He's been drinking. He'd had a dozen or so bottles, given to him from time to time, kept them stored away, saving them for special occasions. Figuring that now he has no one special to share them with, he's been wasting them on himself, downing more than enough to get him sick. He welcomes the vertigo, the disorientation, as it serves the perfect diversion, the perfect getaway from the world.

He hasn't been eating. He waits until his stomach aches from hunger, and even then he'll only eat something small (he doesn't drink much of anything either, save for the alcohol, but his body rids him of that half the time anyway). He doesn't want to eat, because of the problems hunger causes, problems that are, in his own case, beneficial. Lightheadedness. Weakness. Sickness. It feels good to have such a controlled chaos after having a sense of no control when Ryan had taken advantage of him.

He hasn't willingly slept in days. He stays up until the sun rises and only rests when the exhaustion and dizziness from hunger and alcohol are too much and he can't keep his eyes open.

He cuts himself. He doesn't want to; it's terribly cliché, anyway, but he had nearly no choice. He needed the distraction, again, to tear his attention away from the pain that pulsed through his body after what had happened. The things he's already been doing (or, more fittingly, had not been doing) weren't enough of an interference with his reality. He needed a new pain, a pain that he could control. So he'd grabbed a knife from the kitchen and made a single cut on his left wrist. One eventually turned into dozens, and the cutting never stopped, because the cutting stopped his torment.

He's been ignoring the world, turning off his cell phone and disconnecting his home phone, knowing anyone who calls will ask him how he's doing, as if nothing is wrong, because they don't know. If he were to explain the recent chain of events to anyone, it would only cause more problems than are necessary, and Brendon would surely break down while telling the story.

So maybe it's the constant headache, maybe it's the dizziness from lack of proper food or drinks. Maybe it's the countless nights gone without sleeping. Maybe it's because since Ryan came and went, he's had no peace of mind; he doesn't feel safe in his own home anymore. Maybe it's the fact that he wants to scream but doesn't even have a shoulder to cry on anymore. It might even be the fact that he has no one to talk him out of doing this that makes him want to so much.

To tell the truth he's not even sure what does it; all he knows is that he doesn't want to harm himself anymore unless he can destroy himself for good. Brendon wants to die.

-

Brendon sits on the floor, leaning his weight on the arm of the couch behind him. His bare legs stretched out in front of him stand out, pale skin left uncovered by his shorts against the dark colored carpet. Cuts adorn the skin of his calves, his ankles, half-healed and scabbed, similar to the slashes on his arms. An empty glass bottle litters the floor beside him, another one, half-full, in his hand.

He takes a swig of the drink, burning his throat and making his head throb. He presses a cold hand to his forehead to ease the pain. When he's able to think again only one thought is clear: he doesn't want to live like this anymore. He sighs, having had thought this a million times already, figuring he might as well do something about it this time.

He stands from his spot on the floor, supporting himself on weak legs as he walks toward the kitchen. He shivers when he passes by the window he's too lazy to close and it blows a sharp breeze onto his skin, tenses when he passes by the front door he's too lazy to lock, feeling unsafe, cringes when his bare feet touch the cold tiles of the kitchen floor.

He reaches out and pulls a knife, long and thin and ready to slice through Brendon's skin, from the wooden block shoved to the back of the counter. Most people would prefer a gun or pills, but Brendon didn't own a gun and he'd taken all his pain pills to lessen the ache and soreness racking through his body days ago. So he chooses to do what he's almost used to by now.

Though his mind is foggy and his thoughts are thick with tiredness, he knows just what he's doing, having done it dozens of times before. The only difference is that now he cuts deeper and he won't try and stop the bleeding.

Without hesitation he holds the ragged, serrated blade to his wrist, among his other half-healed cuts. He presses down hard enough for his eyes to water and his skin to whiten but so much as to tear the skin.

He looks down at the knife blade, reflecting his pale skin. He takes a breath. He shouldn't be scared. He knows what he's doing. He does this every day, sure, not with as big a knife, not with as deep a cut, but he's replayed and relived this scenario painfully in his head countless times before.

With one slow exhale and squeezing his eyes shut to the point of seeing stars, Brendon presses down harder, dragging the knife's ragged edge over his skin, slicing it deep. As the shockwaves of pain pulse through his veins he opens his eyes, now flooded with tears, looking down and watching helplessly as blood pours, staining his skin an ugly scarlet and dripping onto the linoleum.

Brendon sinks to his knees. He gasps for a breath but chokes on the air.

He figures there's no turning back now, and he takes the knife in his other hand, fingers slippery with blood, pressing down as hard as he can with his wrist so wounded. He feels the same rush of blood pool around the cut, terrifyingly deep. The pain is unbearable and he knows he's crying but he doesn't care.  _It will all be over soon_ , he tells himself.

Blood pools on the floor from both wrists and Brendon drops the knife, watching through tear-blurred eyes as it lands in the sickly red puddle before him.

He brings his hands, trembling, closer to his face and examines the damage, the  _deep_  gashes, and he starts to sob with the realization of what he's just done, the mistake he's made, what's happening because of it.

His pulse throbs in his head and his heart is pounding against his bones. Through the sharp sparks of pain shooting from his arms to his spine to everywhere else, through the muddle in his mind, one thought sticks out amongst the rest:  _This isn't right._  He shouldn't be doing this. He wishes his life wasn't so fucked up that he'd wanted to do this, that he would at least have someone to talk him out of it.  _He doesn't want this anymore_.

He presses soaked fingertips to his wounds, whimpers, tears freely falling down his pale cheeks. He can almost  _feel_  the blood seeping from under his skin, and he knows he can't but he  _can_ , can feel himself bleeding out. Part of him thinks, perfect, but part still wants to weep until everything gets better.

-

Ryan stands on Brendon's doorstep for the first time since last week, but for what feels like the first time in years. His hand is raised to the wood of the door, ready to knock. He hesitates, though, thinking. He knows Brendon will never forgive him for what he's done, no matter how many times he apologizes. He blew his chances for Brendon's trust when he'd done such unspeakable things to him nearly a week ago.

He doesn't care if Brendon forgives him or not, honestly. All he wants is for Brendon to know what happened exactly, for him to have some peace of mind. He doesn't want Brendon to feel anything but good, safe.

Then again, talking to Brendon hasn't exactly been possible as of late. Ryan's tried calling, texting, leaving message after pleading message begging for Brendon to hear him out. It's really no use; Ryan should just give up now, go home; Brendon doesn't want to see him anyway, he knows.

He drops his hand to his side, letting out a defeated sigh. Kicking at a rock on the pavement, he turns on his heel to leave, and he hears it, a choked sob that sounds a lot like Brendon. Ryan spins around, looks through a window (open, he notes, probably how he heard the noise), tries to see something, anything, but nothing unusual is in view. He tries the doorknob, unhopeful, but to his surprise it's unlocked.

He knows if it was nothing, his imagination, perhaps, or a misunderstanding, there would be hell to pay for barging into Brendon's house. But he knows he heard something, and he can't take any chances. He's hurt Brendon enough already; he doesn't want to let him get hurt again.

-

Brendon hears a noise, can't decipher what it is with his heartbeat pounding so loud in his ears. There's a sound like footsteps and suddenly someone is standing over him, frantic. The person reaches out with long thin fingers and grabs onto Brendon's shoulder, his other hand lifting Brendon's chin so their eyes meet, and Brendon makes out that it's  _Ryan_.

Ryan is talking,  _yelling_  at Brendon, questions and demands, but it's too loud and Brendon is too disoriented and he's crying too much and all he hears is noise; it hurts his ears. He assumes Ryan's asking what the hell Brendon was thinking, why the fuck he would do something like this, and so he yells back, "I don't know, I don't know!"

Brendon is dizzy, his head spinning, his vision blurred at the edges. His eyes are slipping shut and he stops screaming and he can't help but fall forward. Ryan is there to catch him but he doesn't know that, the world having already faded to black.

-

Brendon's eyes flutter open, reluctantly, the bright light and white walls hurting his eyes. He shifts, tries to identify where he is. He's in a bed, the mattress hard, the blankets scratchy, the combination only registering in his mind as  _not his_.

He's cold, a chill in the air and a shiver sent down his spine. There's a sound in the background, what sounds to him like the monotonous beeps of a heart monitor, the slow, even noise serving as a tempo for his breathing, a rhythm for his thoughts. It takes a moment for it to process, but Brendon realizes soon enough he's in a hospital.

Someone enters the room, and Brendon blinks and recognizes pale blue hospital scrubs, gingery red hair falling over pale white skin. Brendon presumes she's a nurse, and his suspicions are confirmed when she turns to look at him, smiles, says, "You're awake."

-

Ryan sits in the uncomfortable plastic chair, hunched forward, foot tapping anxiously on the too-clean tiled floor. His elbows rest on his knees, his head in his hands, his fingers kneading the dull waiting room chill from his temples.

He's close to falling asleep, having been here for hours, fighting to keep his eyes open with the thought that Brendon is in a room somewhere, hurt, and it's Ryan's fault. He needs to stay awake, because he needs to right his wrong.

A man approaches Ryan and clears his throat, and Ryan's head snaps up. The doctor towering above Ryan tells him that he can see his brother, and Ryan nods (remembering the lie he'd told so he could see Brendon).

Ryan shoots up from his seat and follows the doctor down long corridors until they stop at a door. The doctor gestures for Ryan to go inside.

Ryan nods and steps forward on trembling legs, walks inside, eyes closed, waits until he can hear the doctor walk away before continuing. He opens his eyes cautiously to find Brendon staring straight ahead at the wall opposite him. Ryan shifts from foot to foot nervously before walking forward to Brendon's hospital bed.

Ryan takes a silent breath and walks over to the hospital bed, places a hand on the side of the bed. "Bren?"

Brendon startles, snaps out of his daze, looks up at the man standing beside him. "Ryan."

One look at the bandages on Brendon's arms and Ryan wants to cry. He can't quite help himself; he hates seeing Brendon like this, hates knowing it's him who's to blame. He leans forward and wraps his arms around Brendon, holds him tight.

If Brendon's not mistaken he can feel tears on his neck where Ryan's face is pressed into the warm skin. With weak arms Brendon hugs Ryan back, hugs back because he's cold and Ryan's warm, because he's lonely and Ryan is here, because Ryan is crying and now so is Brendon.

They stay, holding each other close in silence until Ryan whispers into Brendon's ear, "Never do this again."

Brendon nods, remembers why he's here, in this room, in this bed. Attempted suicide. Depression, starvation, dehydration, sleep deprivation. Attack.  _Rape_.

Brendon lets his arms fall from Ryan's shoulders, and Ryan pulls away, smiling gently down at Brendon with tears still welled in his eyes. Brendon narrows his eyes, brow furrowed in growing anger. "Why are you here?" he asks Ryan.

Ryan cringes at the rasp in Brendon's voice. "Brendon, I—"

"Where's Sarah?"

"I don't know. Brendon, just—"

"Ryan."

They freeze, silence ringing too loudly in the cold, thick air.

Finally, never breaking his and Ryan's gaze, Brendon says, "Please," his voice cracked and quiet.

And Ryan nods; he knows what Brendon wants. He wipes away his tears with the back of his hand and turns to walk away, not looking back. Although he feels like crying, screaming, sobbing, breaking down and giving up because the man that means everything to him wants him gone, he manages to walk out of the room, remember the maze of corridors that gets him out the door, into the cool air of the night, the only thought in his mind that his baby wants him gone.

-

Really, Brendon realizes, staying in a hospital isn't too bad. He's been here two days and already he feels normal again. The nurses make him eat, giving him the full feeling he'd nearly forgotten. Other than that no one bothers him, no more visitors, only the occasional check-up. It's quiet, he can think, focus on the thoughts that don't make him hang his head down low. It's peaceful.

-

There's a knock at the door, a light  _tap tap_  that Brendon recognizes. He snaps his head over to the door and sure enough, Sarah stands in the doorway. If Brendon's not mistaken, she looks worried, like she's trying hard to keep her composure. With expressionless eyes Brendon stares at her as she approaches him, heels clicking loudly on the tiles below her feet. She stops a short distance away from the hospital bed.

She clears her throat. "You tried to…?" She trails off.

Brendon lets his head hang low. He concentrates hard on the pattern on the sheets, picking at the stitches in the fabric. Almost silently he answers, "Yeah."

"What were you thinking?" she asks, stepping closer, narrowing her eyes at him, and Brendon looks up at her. "How could you be so stupid? What the hell is wrong with you, Brendon? You almost died."

"That was kind of the point!" Brendon snaps, venom seeping from his words. Sarah is taken aback but Brendon continues, "I  _wanted_  to die."

Sarah pauses, then asks, her voice small, "Why?"

Brendon laughs, bitter, the almost forgotten sensation rising in his throat and spilling out into his words. "Are you kidding me? I was _raped_ ," he hisses slowly, "By fucking  _Ryan_. He made me think it was my own fucking fault, and when I tried telling you, you walked out. My life was  _hell_  for days. I didn't eat. I didn't sleep. All I thought about was what happened and how I could make it all go away."

Sarah stands, speechless, her heart in her gut. "I… I thought—"

"You thought I was making it up." Sarah doesn't respond, just presses her lips together and blinks down at the man in the hospital bed before her. "Figures," Brendon says, and he turns away from her, opting to face the wall.

Sarah shifts from foot to foot, not quite knowing what to do with herself. She clears her throat once again before saying, awkwardly, "I'm sorry."

Brendon whispers with a weak voice, "You should go."

Sarah reluctantly nods, though she knows Brendon isn't looking, and she turns around slowly, walking out. She stops at the doorway, chances a glance back, and when she sees that Brendon hasn't moved, his expression hasn't changed, she steps out into the corridor, tries to ignore the fact that the person she finally wants to help doesn't want her to.

-

Eventually Brendon is admitted from the hospital, after talking to a counselor for hours about how suicide is never the answer, convincing them that he knows it was stupid and he'll never do anything of the sort again. He's prescribed anti-depressants (which, he tells himself, he'll probably never take) and is told to see a therapist once a week (he sighs, he can't really get out of that one). He nods along to whatever they say, even chances a small smile to show them he means it. Whatever. He just wants more than anything to be back at his own home, asleep in his own bed.

-

When Brendon walks in the door his house is just as quiet as before, just as lonely. The kitchen is clean, and Brendon doesn't want to think about who cleaned it. All he wants to do is sleep. Sleep, and forget the world.

He trudges down the hall to his bedroom and sets his phone down on the bedside table. He kicks off his shoes and changes into sweatpants and a t-shirt, climbing into bed. His sheets and pillow are cool, his blanket thick and soft. It's nice to be here after sleeping in a hospital bed; this feels so much more comforting.

Brendon's eyes slip shut and it feels so good after being surrounded by white walls to close his eyes and see darkness.

He's drifting away, almost asleep, when his phone buzzes beside him. His eyes snap open, and he groggily reaches out for it. He reads the alert on the screen. A new text message, from Ryan:  _can we talk?_

Brendon sighs, but he doesn't want to waste any time thinking and over-thinking (history proves his thoughts aren't exactly safe). He types back  _yes_ , figuring, Ryan did save his life. He did stay in the hospital all the way until Brendon made him leave. Clearly Brendon means something to Ryan. So when Ryan asks,  _can i come over?_ , Brendon answers,  _yeah_. Talking might be good for them, after all (or maybe Brendon's tiredness is causing him to make a wrong decision. He prays for the former).

-

Brendon falls asleep waiting for Ryan to come.

-

Brendon awakes to soft, almost unsure knocking at the bedroom door. He opens his eyes and Ryan is standing in the doorway. "Hey," he says simply.

"Hi," Brendon says, his voice quiet, free of emotions.

"Your front door was open," Ryan explains. Brendon doesn't respond.

A moment or so of silence passes before Ryan walks gingerly over and sits on the edge of the bed. Part of Brendon is scared; part of him wants to shove him away. But another part of him wants Ryan to stay, to talk. 

Ryan stares down at the floor when he speaks up. "I'm sorry."

Brendon sighs, his breath trembling.

Ryan continues. "I know, you probably think it's crap, but I am. I was high and I didn't know what I was doing until it was over. It's no excuse, but there really isn't anything that can make what I did okay."

Brendon bites his lip. He's shivering. He's trying to hold back the tears that so clearly threaten to fall.

Ryan turns, looks into Brendon's eyes. Brendon keeps his gaze locked on the wall. 

"I just wanted you to know how sorry I am. I still can't believe I did those things to you, that I hurt you, that it led to…" He trails off, his eyes falling to the bandages on Brendon's wrists. "I'll never forgive myself for it, and I wouldn't blame you if you never wanted to, either." He looks down again, wiping a hand across his cheek, sniffling.

Brendon looks, now, at the tears on Ryan's face, being wiped away but quickly replaced. 

Ryan stands up, says, "If you want, I'll never bother you again." His voice trembles. He smiles crookedly down at Brendon to mask his cheeks, wet with tears.

Brendon looks into Ryan's eyes and they're normal, sober,  _sincere_.

Ryan leans down and presses a kiss to Brendon's forehead, knows it's pushing it but wants Brendon to feel better. He whispers in Brendon's ear, "I'm so sorry, Bear. I really am." 

He pulls away and Brendon is crying hard, his lip quivering and nostrils flaring, tears streaming down his face and glimmering. Ryan touches a hand to Brendon's cheek, warm, gentle, and he wipes the tears away with his thumb as more of his own fall.

Ryan wants to tell Brendon to stop crying, to breathe, to relax. He wants to hold Brendon's hand, pet his hair, lie down beside him and comfort him until the tears stop falling and he falls back asleep. He wants to kiss Brendon, kiss everything away, kiss his wounds better and kiss the bad memories gone. But he can't, so he stands, turning to walk away. 

Ryan walks out the door and closes it behind him. Almost as soon as the door is shut he hears Brendon let out a sob, muffled by the wooden barrier of the door. Ryan lingers and listens for only a moment longer; he knows he shouldn't stick around.


End file.
